“You want street fighting?” Jack ground out between clenched teeth. “I grew up fighting for scraps in alleys!” Almost recovered, Jack took advantage of the man’s momentary distraction. He stood from his crouch, bringing the staff upright with him.
Right, left, right, and down he struck the guard. Step by step, Jack pushed the tallest man into a narrow passage between two houses. In the shadowed privacy of a hedge he let his fists fly to jaw and gut. He caught his opponent behind the knee with a foot in a blow meant to damage the hamstring.
In moments the fight was over and Jack was running back the way he had come. Running toward the river district, where he could blend into the crowd and disappear.
As he rounded a corner, he heard the shorter guard gasp, “A magician! He changed his hair and eye color. A dark-eyed magician. He’s the one with the price on his head. After him!”
Jack increased his pace. He elbowed merchants and shoppers aside in his headlong run. His foot caught the support pole of a market booth. Wooden poles and canvas awnings collapsed in the road behind him.
Guards stumbled. Ladies screamed. Men cursed.
Shadows from tall buildings invited Jack. He wrapped the growing darkness around him while he caught his breath. A cough born of mine dust threatened to choke him. He held his breath and melted against a brick wall.
The guards called for other men in black to assist them. A troop of seven stomped down the alley where Jack hid. He willed himself into silent immobility, knowing that color and movement caught the eye. His pursuers passed him by without a glance.
When the city watch turned a corner, Jack drifted away in a new direction. He had three more broad streets to cross before he reached the crowded industrial area. He tried a new delusion. Silver hair, stooped shoulders, a fine green cloak. His staff became a cane to assist his shuffling steps.
None of the agitated citizens looked at him twice. He crossed the first street. Large shops gave way to smaller stores with dwellings atop.
He crossed the second street and caught a glimpse of the marching troop of the city watch, now grown to twelve. He paused to cement the delusion in place.
The dozen men in black turned back onto the same route Jack followed. One man in the lead sniffed right and left, his right arm straight out before him. His nose wrinkled and he tested the air again. “There!” the witch-sniffer cried and pointed. “That old man, he’s a magician.”
“King Simeon has offered a year’s pay for his head. Two years’ pay for each of us if we catch him alive!”
Jack dropped the energy-draining delusion and ran.
The crowds increased. Jack found himself pushing and shoving innocent bystanders into the filthy gutters. Footsteps pounded hard behind him. The city watch gained on him. He needed a hiding place.
Large stone factories and warehouses crowded the narrowing streets. Shadows reached out to encircle him. He smelled the damp of the river and the tar used to coat ship hulls. Memories of Coronnan City assaulted and confused him. He stumbled on unfamiliar cobblestones up a curb into a green-painted door.
The latch was open and he fell into a narrow corridor. An unseen hand closed the door firmly behind him.
“A rather unseemly entrance for my new night watchman.” An extremely tall and gaunt man dressed in fine black tunic and trews glared at Jack.
“Sorry, sir, I tripped on the curbing. I . . . I thought I was late and ran too fast,” Jack stammered. His years as a drudge had taught him to dissemble rather than catch hell for imagined crimes and misdemeanors.
“Well, you are late. And you are short. The Rover chieftain promised me a strong man who could frighten off intruders, thieves, and spies.”
Spies and Rovers? Jack wondered what he had stumbled into. Was escape from the city watch worth the risk of an even more dangerous situation?
“Oh, but I am strong, sir,” Jack found himself saying. He flexed his arms to show off his muscles. Three years of wielding a sledge hammer had added considerable bulk to his shoulders and chest. “And I know how to fight.” To emphasize that point he put on his most intimidating expression and stared into the eyes of his potential employer. Eyes that were as dark as his own and full of Rover deceit.
That boy is here!
I cannot blame the mundanes of the city watch for losing him. He outsmarted me before with his transport spell. Lanciar lost track of him a week ago. How does he find enough magic in this cursed land to support such a spell?
I shall find out. Simeon must be forced to turn his attention to finding the boy. I have not the strength. The babe draws all of my energy and concentration. Perhaps I shall have to force an early birth so that I can devote my time and strength to something else. My father’s wife will welcome the opportunity to raise my child in secret exile.
“Do you have a name, young man?” The dark-eyed factory owner asked.
“Jack.” He’d learned at least that this was a factory, and rival factory owners had been trying to steal designs from the tall man who bore the heritage of the Rovers in his eyes. Just as Jack did.
“Jack What?” One long sandy-blond eyebrow rose above the dark eyes so that it looked like a sideways question mark.
“Just Jack.”
“A bastard, eh.” The owner shrugged and led the way down the long corridor. “Here on the ground floor are my offices and the warehouse.” He flung open a white-painted, wooden door on the right to reveal crates piled high. The storage area took up most of the building surrounding the stark and utilitarian office. A much wider double door opened from the back of the building directly onto the docks. Six men milled around an open crate while stevedores from a waiting ship lounged upon more crates.
“Why aren’t you men at work?” The factory owner’s voice dripped disdain for his employees.
“Sorry, Owner Brunix.” One nondescript man of middle age separated himself from the others and approached Jack and the owner.
Now Jack had a name to attach to his new employer. “Sir, this crate is short three reels of lace. That new design you wanted me to check special. It was in with the rest of the shipment yesterday when I packed it. But now it’s gone.”
“Cursed thieves!” Rage darkened the owner’s skin to a dark sunburn. Too stupid to respect Rover wards!
The thought leaked through without Jack opening his mind. No further explanation followed the one angry explosion.
Owner Brunix’s mind closed up once more. Rover tribes tended to have natural armor around their thoughts. What was so important about the wards that his thoughts leaked out?
So this was a lace factory. Luck or the Stargods had led him to a place to start looking for Mistress Kaantille. Or lacking her, he would have access to the delicate fabric he needed for Shayla.
His eyes searched every corner of the warehouse for clues. When the sealed crates revealed nothing but shadows, he allowed his other senses to open. “Listening” was much harder here, but easier than true magic. He only allowed himself to eavesdrop when he had no other course of action.
The stevedores were laughing among themselves at the free leisure while the warehouse crew puzzled over the theft. The men who worked for Owner Brunix quaked inwardly in fear that they would lose their jobs. Work was hard to come by in SeLenicca. The only alternative to homelessness and starvation was the army. That life might provide a man with food and a tent over his head, but it provided nothing for his family unless they became camp followers. None of these men wanted their wives and daughters in so vulnerable a position that they could fall into the role of prostitute for an entire troop of battle-hardened men.
“I sent word to our chieftain that I needed a night watchman. Someone special who can stop these thefts. That will be your job, Jack.” Owner Brunix closed his mouth as tightly as his mind. His eyes, too, searched the cavernous room for unseen thieves. Then his expression softened a little. “I had to fire the last night watchman. He drank and fell asleep once too often. I believe my rivals provided the whiskey.
”
“Whiskey has never crossed my lips, sir, and probably never will,” Jack affirmed. And it hadn’t. In Coronnan, the thick, sweet—and potent—beta’arack, distilled from treacle betas in Rossemeyer, was the preferred hard liquor. Grain had more profitable and practical uses in Coronnan—uses like bread and winter feed for cattle; it wasn’t wasted on whiskey. Since Queen Mikka from Rossemeyer had married King Darville and increased trade without tariff between the two countries, SeLenese whiskey was much more expensive than beta’arack.
SeLenicca never traded with the desert homeland of Queen Rossemikka, so they wouldn’t have beta’arack. Indeed, Queen Mikka’s marriage to King Darville had precipitated the war between SeLenicca and Coronnan.
“I have no uses for drunkards, Watchman Jack. Remember that and report to me if anyone offers you a bribe. You,” Brunix pointed to the warehouse foreman, “complete the order for that crate with the reserve reels of lace in my office. The rest of you, get back to work!” Brunix turned on his heel and marched out of the warehouse.
Jack followed the owner’s rapid steps up a rickety wooden staircase to the first floor. Again he was met with a long narrow corridor running the length of the building. Two doorways on each side broke the bare walls.
“Male employees sleep on the right. The far door is the bath.” Brunix gestured to the appropriate door. “Move your things into any empty bunk as soon as we finish this tour of the factory. Be ready to report to work at sunset.”
“What are the doorways on the left, sir?” Jack hurried to keep up as they headed for yet another wooden staircase at the opposite end of the building. These steps were in better repair, painted and secured with a smooth railing.
“The women’s dormitories.” Brunix paused halfway up the stairs. “Flogging and dismissal is the punishment for any man who enters those rooms. Even I must ask permission. Remember that if any of my women tempt you.”
The possessiveness of the owner’s attitude grated on Jack. He wondered if Brunix owned the women like he owned the factory. Suddenly he disliked Brunix. Any sense of kinship he might have felt with his Rover heritage evaporated.
“The workroom is above the dormitories on the second floor. You will patrol this area after the women retire for the night, as part of your rounds. Stay out at all other times. Touching the lace or the patterns is forbidden.”
Jack stalled a moment to watch the two dozen women bent over their work stations. He’d seen loom weaving often enough, but this process of moving threads on slender spindles mystified him, defied all logic. Yet the delicate fabric spilling off the bolsters gleamed with life like gossamer strands of magic.
A last ray of setting sun broke through the oiled parchment window coverings. Light set the strands of lace glimmering like moonlight on a dragon wing.
Fraank was right. The patch must be of lace. This wonderful airy fabric seemed akin to Shayla’s iridescent membranes.
“Is any of this lace made of Tambrin?” he asked casually. There was enough lace in this room to purchase a kingdom.
“No.” Brunix squinted his eyes as if caught in a lie. “Only palace lacemakers are licensed to work with Tambrin. We make lace for export. It needs to be as inexpensive as possible, made with common threads. Palace lace is made for our own nobility and no one else.”
If Tambrin added expense and value to lace, the women Jack had seen promenading through the shops each wore a king’s ransom on their gowns.
Brunix walked to a woman who sat close to the long row of high windows. In spite of the extra light from the windows, her work space, like all the others, was illumined by a candle lantern at the head of her pillow stand. Brunix examined the length of finished lace as wide as a man’s palm. He unrolled at least three arm-lengths from a second, small bolster dangling from the larger workspace.
Owner Brunix produced a pair of scissors from a concealed pocket and snipped the finished length from the roll. “Take this to the foreman and have it added to the shipment going out tonight,” he instructed the woman as he pocketed the sharp scissors and returned to Jack.
Together they mounted the last flight of stairs.
“This is my private apartment.” Brunix flung wide the door. Brilliant sunlight flooded the room from six standard windows of mica and a skylight of decent-quality glass.
Neither the University nor the palace in Coronnan City boasted a single window with as much glass as that pane. The only bigger piece Jack had seen was the black glass table where the Commune of Magicians used to confer.
“You will have no need to enter these room unless I summon you.” Brunix reached to close the door again.
Movement in the corner of the sitting room caught Jack’s attention. He willed the door to remain open a moment longer. Brunix seemed to have difficulty pulling the heavy, soundproof panels shut.
A young woman stood up from another workstation set between the windows. Moon-blond hair shone in the setting sun. Delicate fingers caressed a loose bobbin.
Her! The girl of his vision when he was lost in the void. The girl all grown up into a beautiful woman. The woman who had haunted his dreams when nothing else was real during those endless years in the mines.
“Go back to work, Katrina,” Brunix admonished. “We will not disturb you.”
“Your wife?” Jack asked still staring at the woman.
“My slave. You are not allowed to speak to her. Ever. She is mine. Do you understand? MINE!” Brunix finally managed to close the door, separating Jack from the woman of his vision, returning him to reality.
Chapter 28
Katrina checked the corridor outside the dormitory for any signs of the new night watchman. She didn’t trust this dark-eyed stranger any more than she trusted Owner Neeles Brunix.
Three nights running she had tried to slip up to the workroom when sleep refused to overtake her. Each of those three nights the stranger had appeared at the end of the corridor as if summoned by her presence.
The first night he merely nodded to her, acknowledging her right to be in the building. The second night he’d followed her to the workroom, then returned to wherever he spent the night hours. Last night he’d slipped silently in and out of the room, watching her work for a few moments every hour or so.
Lumbird bumps rose up on her arms as she thought of his ghostly movements through the warehouse. What would he do tonight? Ask for lessons? She shivered in the chill darkness. Why did he watch her so intently?
She refused to admit that each time he left the workroom, a terrible loneliness overcame her. Loneliness worse than that she had endured these last three years.
The corridor and stairway were empty. Soundlessly, and without benefit of a candle, Katrina slipped upstairs. She knew every creak in every unstable board in the building. She’d learned them well in three years. The watchman had learned them in one night.
She needed to lose herself in her work and find a kind of peace. Firestone brought her smokeless work candle to life. The bobbins came readily to hand. She caressed them and hummed lightly to herself. The old work songs sprang to life in her mind. She’d never let them die. In all these years of working in grim silence for Brunix, she’d gone over the songs in her mind, letting the gentle rhythms guide her hands.
Only at night, when she was alone and surrounded by darkness, did she allow herself to voice the words and tunes, very, very quietly. Brunix didn’t believe in songs in his factory. Lacemaking was work and song made it seem like play.
The factory owner must know she worked alone at night, for he allowed her to keep a second pillow here in the workroom as long as the work was obscured from view by a large cloth during the day. A good pillow, covered in soft velvet, with bobbins as slender and graceful as the pattern she worked. The lace spilling off the bolster was the first design she’d given him. Other skilled women in the factory also worked the pattern. But they used a fine linen thread suitable for export. Katrina used Tambrin, as the design demanded.
She didn’t
know how Brunix acquired the thread or who purchased her lace. Did his Rover clan smuggle them in and out of SeLenicca? She didn’t want to know, for if the palace ever discovered a factory using Tambrin, the owner would forfeit his license to make any lace at all.
The faintest whisper of sound reached her ears. Her eyes widened in alarm as she searched the shadows for signs of her mother’s ghost.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” the watchman asked directly behind her.
“Oh!” she gasped a little too loudly. “You frightened me.” His presence always startled and intrigued her.
“Sorry, Mistress Kaantille. You are Katrina Kaantille aren’t you?”
“I am mistress of nothing. Didn’t Brunix tell you I am a slave?”
“He told me. Your father told me you were to be accepted as an apprentice at the palace and allowed to retain the family home. He wouldn’t have sold himself to King Simeon otherwise.”
“P’pa? You’ve seen my P’pa?” Wild relief and bitter anger roared through her heart, vying for dominance. Carefully she closed down all those confusing emotions, just as she had numbed herself the night she was forced into the owner’s bed.
“Fraank Kaantille sends you his love. He wasn’t well enough to come with me, but I’ll take you to him when I’ve finished my mission here in the city.”
“Then P’pa survived his years in the slave ships. I wondered if he would return when his servitude ended. That isn’t supposed to be for another two years.”
“Slave ships? Fraank and I met in the mines. And his sentence was life. If we hadn’t escaped, he’d be dead with the mine rot by now. As it is, he’s probably dying.”
“The mines!” She shuddered. A long and bitter death. In her mind, Fraanken Kaantille had been dead for three years already. The reality of his condition brought new tears and a lump to her throat.
“King Simeon can’t be trusted, even with his own laws.” Her eyes blurred. Anger, born of three years of bitterness, covered her vision with red mist. Simeon was an outlander, just like Brunix and this new watchman. She couldn’t trust any of them.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 92